Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

the clean plates in the cupboard with a series of sharp, ceramic clacks.

“Think about it, Martha,” Robert said, picking up his legal pad. “For Donald’s sake.”

He walked past me, his heavy gold ring catching the lamplight as he reached for the front door handle.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving only the quiet hum of the refrigerator continue reading …